


Hello, China!

by Nattish



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Elemental Magic, HP: EWE, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-12-27 03:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nattish/pseuds/Nattish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where Voldemort has been defeated but the Death Eaters remain at large, Harry Potter is a war colonel leading a regiment across Muggle Eurasia. When he’s injured in the line of duty, he refuses treatment from anyone except Healer Malfoy, who is befuddled but perfectly willing to find out what this means.</p><p><b>Featured Book:</b> <span class="u">The Healer’s Helpmate</span></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, China!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AmoretteHD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmoretteHD/gifts).



  
  
From _Harry Potter Page to Screen_   


>   
>  THE DAILY PROPHET  
>  _October 3, 2012_  
> 
> 
>   
>  **Ministers Quibble as War Rages on**   
> 
> 
> In an unprecedented act of nose-thumbing, this weekend Bulgarian Minister Dmitry Oblansk was seen at the World Magical Leadership Summit in Beijing scoffing at a recent installation—a lavish, gold-gilded statue in the courtyard of China’s Ministry of Magic depicting what they claim to be “the birth of magic.” The statue, a moving behemoth as large as a house, shows Ping, the mythological alchemist, picking his wand off a magnolia tree and using it to produce his spirit phoenix, which is said to have guided him to invent ancient Herbology, Arithmancy, Potions, and Charms.
> 
> “This is nonsense!” the Bulgarian Minister was heard whispering to his aid. “If Ping invented magic, then why can’t China let those damn bones out of their Ministry for someone else to examine?”
> 
> The bones to which he was referring are more commonly known as the Origins of Magic Scripts. When Ping died (c. 3200 BC), he was said to have spelled a quill to write his discoveries and inventions on his bones once his flesh decayed. Most of the Prophet’s readers will recall that these documents, commonly known as the Origins of Magic, are under lock and key at the Chinese Ministry and are considered by some to be the oldest known records of magic.
> 
> Regardless of these claims, many are asking why China has put so much money into this statue when war is knocking at its door. To the northwest, Ally and Death Eater forces are battling on the Mongolian-Russian border, and with Mongolia’s almost non-existent magical governance, it is thought inevitable the Death Eaters will sweep the territory and make for China next. 
> 
> Chinese Minister for Magic, Yu Chen, spoke briefly on the matter at the Summit: “These are European concerns, in any case not Chinese concerns, and China will continue to thrive independently as it has since it invented magic millenniums ago.”
> 
> And thrive it has. Since the British Ministry formed its Magical Military in 2002, joined later by its allies France, Germany, Belgium, and Italy, the Chinese magical economy has exploded as its government sells ancient incantation scrolls, mass-produced wands, potions and herbs by the shipful, and Muggle artillery to the Allies. When asked why they do not sell the same goods to Death Eater states, Minister Chen replied, “Well, they have not asked.” He went on to state that their business practices are not “in support of the Allies” but merely “capitalizing on them.”
> 
> To this the Bulgarian Minister scoffed, “Well, we do not wish to give business to soulless, neutral parties, anyway,” which rather sheds light on the rumours that Bulgaria recently declared allegiance to the Death Eaters and is also said to be in direct contact with self-proclaimed Supreme Pure President Albert Runcorn himself. (Runcorn is otherwise known for his previous role in the British Ministry of Magic as top investigator for the long-dissolved Muggle-born Registration Committee.)
> 
> This reporter speculates that China will not remain neutral for long, for Runcorn is unlikely to decide taking the country would be fruitless. Indeed, how could it be, as many supplies as it is providing the Allies? China will have to choose sides in short order, unless it wishes to become a third party in this most tragic and long-waged world war.

\\\\\\*///

Far beyond the river, the Great Steppe of Russia smouldered, and for the first time that autumn, Draco was thankful for the rain that would surely pour tonight. The grasslands would not be burning long, giving comfort to the impoverished Muggles, who couldn’t possibly understand why their homeland was being shocked with fireballs, lightning, and plumes of smoke. The New War had hit those folks worst of all. But on this side of the river, in Mongolia, the Muggles were safe (sparse as they were) and would remain safe as long as Draco’s regiment lived. Only time would tell how long that would be. After all, they’d been stagnant in this spot for three weeks now, sandwiched between the river and the base of the Altai Mountains, and rumour made it seem as though it wasn't by choice. He retracted his Focoscope, the last gift his father had given him before fleeing after the Battle of Hogwarts, squashed his cigarette into the muddy banks, and ducked back into the biggest tent in a row of thirty others.

The fabric corridor fluttered around him. His heart fluttered, too, as his veins swam with nicotine—not a physiological reaction, but a fearful one. He wondered, like he had after every cigarette since he was stationed here, would that be the last one he ever smoked?

He was headed into the medics’ lounge for coffee and biscuit when a voice panted up behind him. 

“Healer Malfoy,” Crabbe said. Not Vince, of course, but his brother, Gordon, whose existence Draco only learned about when he popped up on Draco’s roster of orderlies. He suspected the fellow was a squib. “Sir, I know you’re on lunch, but there’s a patient in Room 5, and—”

“As you said, I’m on lunch. Go tell a nurse.”

Crabbe’s forehead wrinkled. “Sir. He asked specifically for you, sir.”

“Who in this Hellhole thinks he’s so important he gets to choose who tends to him?”

More wrinkles. “Colonel Potter, sir.”

“I see.” Potter might have been top officer in this regiment, but it wasn’t as if _Draco_ answered to him. He pointed at Crabbe’s pudgy face. “A nurse.”

“Yes, sir.” 

Before Draco could step foot into the lounge, there was another voice, a more confident one.

“Healer Malfoy!” Ron Weasley was rushing towards him. “Can I pull you into Room 5? It’s Harry—an emergency—”

Draco was being steered down the corridor so fast he didn’t think to protest. “If it’s an emergency, why aren’t the bells going off?”

“Not that kind of emergency.”

Weasley swept open the curtain to Room 5 to reveal Harry Potter sprawled on an exam table in his underwear, his fists balled up and beating the padded surface, his face contorted in agony, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes as he tried not to scream. At first glance, Draco could see nothing wrong with him. He took out his wand, but the diagnostic spell was unnecessary once he approached. Potter’s legs were covered in red, glowing runes. Actually, they were Asiatic hieroglyphics that Draco had seen only once before in a textbook, but their effects were so ominous that he remembered clearly how to intervene.

“Get his arse in the tub,” he barked at the orderlies.

“It’s a curse of some kind,” Weasley said, as if Draco hadn’t gone through four years of magio-medical school to know that. Oh, and as if Draco were fucking stupid. 

Because the orderlies were slow (of foot and brain), Draco waved a hand at the nearby clawfoot tub, and the spigot gushed icy water. He materialized a bucket of ice from the canteen, too. While the orderlies hauled Potter off the table, he shot Weasley a sidelong look. “Did you at least win the battle?”

“You’re not in Death Eater detainment, so what do you think?”

Steam hissed off the water’s surface as they lowered Potter. By now, he was limp, quite possibly unconscious, and when the two men let go, Potter sank like a lead bath toy. The orderlies squawked, pulled him back up, and looked at Draco for instruction. He conjured a bath brace—a plastic, table-like device that fit securely across the walls of the tub. When he’d fitted it against Potter’s chest, leaving his arms hanging over the sides, the result was an upright Potter lolling over the brace as though he were a baby who’d fallen asleep in his high-chair.

“Is that all?” Weasley asked nervously.

Draco was distracted with paperwork. “No, but it should keep him from frying in his own skin until I figure out a remedy.” _Replace ice every 20 minutes or as needed_ , he wrote. As if he should have to be so specific. He handed the parchment to Crabbe. “Give that to Nurse Edgecombe.”

Draco turned for the door. A biscuit was waiting for him, and he probably deserved two after this; ordering people around had always taken it out of him.

“Malfoy,” Weasley said. He was squatting next to Potter with his hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Thanks for this. I’m sure he’ll thank you, too, when he’s awake.”

“Potter? Thank someone?” Draco snorted. But that reminded him. “Why did he insist on seeing me?”

A shrug. “You know how Harry is. Ever since, well, _everything_ —the militarization, all the people defecting. He’s suspicious.”

“Of whom?”

There was a ruckus in the corridor. Nurse Edgecombe was giving Crabbe an earful, asking him why _he_ wasn’t smart enough to put Potter on ice.

Weasley cleared his throat. “Of everyone.”

“And I’m not everyone?” 

“Come on, you know you’re different. You went to uni with us. Plus, you risked your life to join our side, defied the Death Eaters, Runcorn, and all that. He thinks highly of you. Don’t tell him I told you, though. Likes to put on a tough act, doesn’t he?”

“Right...well.” Draco rubbed the back of his neck, because he suddenly didn’t know what else to do with himself. “He’ll have to deal with a nurse when he comes to. I’m busy, and they’re just as reliable.”

“I’ll let him know.”

\\\\\\*///

That evening, Draco could hear them arguing through the curtain.

“Get Malfoy, Ron.”

“Mate, come on, you’re being a pain in the arse.”

Draco knew Marietta Edgecombe was in Room 5 trying to administer the potion he had prescribed. He also knew vaguely that she had a less than comfortable history with Potter and his friends, but could not imagine the issue had been significant enough for Potter to refuse treatment from the woman. 

“Nurse Edgecombe, I respect what you do, but given our past I simply don’t think—”

“If you’re so bothered by me, Colonel Potter, why don’t you transfer me to a new regiment?”

“Look,” he said through his teeth. “I’d send you away if I could. I’d send _all of us_ away if I could.”

“Harry, shut it,” Weasley hissed.

There was a thwack. “Here’s your medication. Take it or don’t. _Sir_.”

Edgecombe stormed past Draco and disappeared into the next patient’s room. After deliberating over whether to retire for the night or make sure Potter didn’t kill himself in a fit of stubbornness, he decided preserving his flawless medical record was more valuable than getting in a full eight hours. When he slipped through the curtain, Weasley and Potter’s heads were together as they conversed with the air of two people who’d been married for twenty years and were struggling not to peel each other’s faces off.

“How can I know she’s really changed, Ron?”

“Because that was _years_ ago, when we were kids. She’s risking her life being out here. And that slip at the end about sending us all away? What was that? Get your head on straight.”

Potter glowered at Weasley like he wanted to demote him. Then he waved a hand. “I know, I know. But even if she tells anyone, reinforcements will be here in two days. Not much time for people to worry.”

Weasley didn’t respond. He was eyeing Draco, who lifted the bottom of Potter’s bed sheet and drawled, “So you haven’t turned into a Peking duck.”

“Think we’re in the wrong region for that,” Weasley said, leaning his chair back so it balanced on two legs. 

“The point is the ice bath worked. Calmed the burning. But you’ll have to keep doing them three or four times a day until you’ve finished your round of medication.” Draco looked at the blue potion on the nightstand, but Potter refused to take the bait. 

Instead, he asked, “What was it, anyway? The curse?”

“Chinese Flesh-Fire Curse. Very rare nowadays. My guess is that you triggered a set of old wards outside a farm or something and weren’t directly attacked. Didn’t take you for clumsy, Colonel.”

Potter’s shoulders drooped inside his hospital gown, which gave Draco a strange sort of satisfaction. It was nice to knock the Boy Who Lived down a peg, even in an academic sort of fashion. He smirked to himself, thumbing through Potter’s chart.

“Wait, a Chinese curse?” Weasley sat up straight, letting the front legs of the chair smack on the ground. “You said you were off scouting for weak points in the Death Eaters’ lines along the Russian border. You didn’t say anything about China to me.”

Potter’s lips thinned. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Don’t worry about it? I’m second in command, Harry, not to mention your best friend. You’ve got to tell me when you deviate from the mission at hand.”

“Ron, I know—”

Weasley’s neck was turning red in contrast to the green of his combat robes. “You could have been shot down, and we wouldn’t have known where you were. You _know_ the Chinese don’t want us crossing their borders. They’re a neutral party, and they might view it as aggression. You’re lucky it was just someone’s grandpa’s curse and not their Aurors coming after you.”

“I said I _know_.”

“Then fucking act like you know, Harry! I’m tired of you always—”

“ _Lieutenant-Colonel, that’s enough_ ,” Potter barked. 

Draco jumped, nearly dropping his paperwork. Weasley’s mouth had shut, but he looked like he was struggling not to burst forth with further admonishment. 

The ticking of the clock was strangely loud. Also, Draco’s heart. It was pounding in his ears, and quite possibly sending jolts of energy down into his nether-regions. All because of the authority in Potter’s voice. Oh no.

Draco took a slow breath, and said, “Colonel Potter, I’ll need to ask you a few questions to test your memory. Standard procedure when someone falls off his broom.”

“I only fell three feet at the very end,” Potter said, his voice calming to something distant. He did not protest as Draco spelled a quill and parchment to take notes beside them.

“What’s your name?”

“Harry James Potter.”

“How old are you?”

“29.”

“And where are you?”

“Western Mongolia.”

“Good enough,” Draco decided, mostly because he was still having a hard time focusing. He attempted not to look at the way Potter’s jaw muscles flexed as he ground his teeth, and asked, “How far have the runes spread?”

Potter looked at Weasley, who was acting sullen with his arms crossed, and then back at Draco. “Did someone tell you—?”

“No, but there’s a process to this curse. First it burns. If the burning isn’t soothed, it seeps into your body and cooks you. You die of organ failure, if your blood doesn’t coagulate first. If it _is_ soothed, it spreads superficially, trying to find a weak point.”

He swallowed. “It’s up to my lower back now.”

“Groin?”

“No.”

“Good thing for you. I can cut the pain, but it might stop you from having kids if it gets that far. Now—” Draco plucked the potion off the table and wiggled it in front of Potter’s nose. “Drink it.”

His eyes flicked up and down the bottle. “Did you brew it?”

Edgecombe had. “Yes.”

Draco lingered. The curative potion was full of darklock, which was likely to nauseate Potter, and it wasn’t ideal, the thought of being woken in the middle of the night to sign off on a second dose. As Potter and Weasley conversed, occasionally dropping phrases like “retreat” and “keeping up morale” loud enough for Draco to cock an eyebrow, he sat on the edge of the tub reading _The Healer’s Helpmate_. In reality, it was rather a lot of pressure being the highest ranked medic in the regiment, and he often referenced this book when he was unsure where to turn. It was how he’d known to prescribe Potter this potion. Also in reality: Draco was looking at Potter more than he was reading.

If you were to ask Draco, he’d promptly admit that Potter was attractive. You know—if you went for that dark, brawny, brooding thing. The thing with the blunt hands and the thick thighs and the chest hair poking over the top of his gown and the perfect smile, when he bothered to smile, which nowadays was rare. And this wasn’t the first time he’d acknowledged it. There had been times, back in the days before the military formed, when Potter had glanced at him in the smoke of the university pub, his eyes lit by passing candles, his cheeks glowing with the burn of spirits, and Draco had been caught, simply caught, and let himself wonder if Potter could ever feel the same. Of course, sober, the thought was preposterous. Especially now that Potter had been promoted up the military ladder so fast it was as if he were jaunting up an actual ladder. Potter was a celebrity, a war hero, an icon of classic masculinity, and there was no way he was...the way Draco was. Which made Potter _liking_ him impossible. So, when Weasley turned in for the night, saying, “I should head to my tent. Hermione will be worried sick,” Draco had no reason to feel funny when he and Potter were left alone. Still, he did, noting the anxiety on Potter’s face.

“Nausea?” Draco wondered.

“Mm? Oh, no. Something else.”

“Well, if you were going to be sick, it would have happened by now. Rest up, and if your legs start to burn, just hop in the tub.” He tucked his book into his robes and made for the door.

“My legs burn right now.”

Draco stopped. “Potter,” he sighed, taking in the expectant face. There were beads of sweat gathering between his eyebrows. He’d clearly been hiding his agony the whole evening. “I don’t know what your problem is—but, no. I will not be the one to bathe you. I did not go to medical school to do something your mother could do with her eyes closed.”

“Hm. Thought you’d take it as a compliment I keep asking for you.”

“So, you’re saying I should thank you? Shall I bow and scrape when you’re asking me to wipe your arse next?” Potter’s eyes darkened. He opened his mouth, but Draco cut him off. “I’ll send a nurse. Goodnight.”

He didn’t feel too bad about leaving Potter angry in bed. It wasn’t his fault Potter was stubborn.

That night, Draco wondered what it might have been like if he _had_ done the bathing. He didn’t know why Potter kept asking for his assistance alone—after all, there were nurses on staff other than Edgecombe—but he didn’t imagine it was for the same reasons Draco would have liked to accept. There were communal showers outside the main barracks, and he’d cast more than one glance at Potter’s small, firm backside, and he thought of it flexing and working as his fist moved under the covers, and he quickly nodded off after that, surprised at how content he’d become to relax with the bang of artillery and curse-fire in the distance.

\\\\\\*///

There were few gentle awakenings for him these days.

“Healer Malfoy!” shouted Crabbe, even as the emergency bells sounded. 

Draco had private quarters, but it didn’t feel like he did as often as orderlies were sticking their heads into his tent to carry on about any scrape or bruise. When he emerged to find tents collapsing, men in combat robes sprinting up and down the rows, and curses flashing so close to the waterline that Draco could see the outline of Death Eater hoods for the first time since he was commissioned, he knew this was no menial emergency.

He rushed to the infirmary tent. 

“Stations!” he called out, though there was no need. Orderlies were already pulling the spelled ropes, triggers that would cause the wizard space to remain expanded to accommodate the patients while the outside of the tent broke down to be easily carried in someone’s knapsack. All the while, nurses were warning patients not to move from their beds. No patient made a fuss but one.

Potter was simultaneously trying to wield a wand and walk on crutches, hopping around a flustered Nurse Abbott. Coupled with his bare feet, mussed hair, and hospital gown, it was a ridiculous sight. 

“Get back in your room,” Draco ordered, striding past without a second look.

“You think I’m going to lay in bed while we’re—?”

“Abbott, if he doesn’t comply, you have my permission to stun him.”

Draco had no idea what was going on outside, but it wasn’t his problem. Not unless they were overtaken. The hospital tent was assigned to the bag of a man named Captain Swift, and swift he was. It felt like the tent had been caught in a tornado, jostling through the air, occasionally knocking against something hard, presumably as it was buried in Swift’s bag against a thermos or weapon. Draco was forced to hold Dennis Creevey’s hand as the lad lay motion sick in his bed for what seemed like hours. Draco himself was ready to vomit by the end of it. 

After a great many minutes, the bells stopped. Swift stilled. Draco slipped Creevey a calming draught and tread into the corridor with his wand out. A few orderlies were there, wide-eyed, almost frightened, but not for the reason Draco feared. Weasley was in the tent, which made it clear they had survived the battle and pushed back the Death Eaters, and his voice was erupting from Room 5 like the artillery they’d just avoided.

“I’VE NEVER BEEN SO ANGRY AT YOU! HOW COULD YOU KEEP THIS FROM ME? SHE COULD BE—”

“I didn’t want to worry you for no reason!” Potter was bellowing back.

“—LETTING MY WIFE GO OFF IN RURAL CHINA? _Alone_? Not even a fucking guide to—”

Draco did the professional thing. He waved the medical staff away and cast a muffling charm around the room and himself, so he could listen without anyone thinking he was eavesdropping.

“Hermione insisted,” Potter was saying, “what was I to do?”

“You could have told me what was going on! This isn’t some bloody Hogwarts adventure, Harry. They’ll kill her if they figure out she’s with our military—which they _will_ , given she’s a lone British witch right outside the warzone!”

“You think I don’t know that? But she’s twice as clever as either of us, and she’ll be—”

“Do you know how worried I was when I woke up and she still wasn’t back? What could be so important you’d risk her life like this?”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with it! She insisted! Something about historical research in some caves.”

“Well, bloody Hell! If you would have _started_ by telling me she had to go _study_ , I would have been all right with you sending my wife to her death.”

“Listen, I don’t have control over her. She’s not under my command. She snuck in here with you, and it was against my wishes if you remember correctly.”

“It doesn’t mean it’s not your responsibility to protect her. She’s your friend, too, not just my wife. The least you could have done was tell me last night!” There was a bang, as if Weasley had punched something. Silence. Then, softly, “I could have been searching for her, instead of sleeping.”

“I’m sure she’s fine. If she’s not back by tonight—”

“Fuck that. I’m going to look for her now.”

“Lieutenant-Colonel, you will not leave this base,” Potter said forcefully.

This time Weasley paid him no mind. He ripped open the flap and charged out. Draco should have gone after him to ask for a count of wounded, but he found himself wandering into Room 5 instead. Potter was bent over the edge of the bed with his head in his hands. Absurd as the position was, it made sense. The runes on his legs were inflamed again, probably chafing against the fabric of the sheets when he lay down, but Draco made no comment except, “What was that?”

“Hermione,” he said into his hands. “She’s been missing for 24 hours, and it’s all my fault.”

The news hadn’t exactly pleased Draco, but he knew she was a more competent witch than most. “No. I meant the attack.”

He looked up sharply. “Exactly what you said. An attack.”

His clipped tone might have been sexy if it weren’t accompanied by a glare. The glare softened. Potter pushed himself onto his feet. When he reached out for his crutches, his knees wobbled, and he fell to the floor grasping for the bed sheets.

“Merlin,” Draco exclaimed, hurrying over to help him up, “Get in bed if you can’t walk.”

“I need a bath.”

“Have you been skipping them?”

“Not on purpose. Haven't seen Hannah since she stunned me. And Edgecombe’s been avoiding me, full stop. And the orderlies....”

He didn’t need to finish. Draco saw the way they tiptoed past Room 5. They were scared of him. 

“Maybe if you were a little more approachable,” Draco said, realizing the irony of him telling this to someone else. He helped Potter to his feet. “I’ll have a talk with Edgecombe.”

“Don’t. It’s my own fault. Can you just help me get in? I feel like it’s down to my bones.”

Of course, it wasn’t. The ice water would have slowed the curse’s progress too much for that. But he was certain Potter wasn’t exaggerating the pain. They walked slowly to the tub, Potter’s arm around his shoulders, his legs stiff, barely able to lift and bend as he threw one into the tub, then the other. Draco magicked off his hospital gown and shorts, thinking he’d be hard-pressed to strip Potter manually, and tried keep his mouth closed as the arse from his fantasies was revealed to him, somehow even more smooth and tight up close. And, as these feelings were strictly unprofessional, he turned the knobs, spelled the water so that it was near-freezing, and nodded his leave.

“One second,” Potter bit out. He was on his knees in the water, clutching the sides of the tub, painstakingly trying to lower his bottom into the water, but each time he tried to relax into a sitting position, he’d spring up again like something were biting him. “I can’t. I can’t sit. It burns to touch the runes to anything.”

“Then how have you been sleeping?”

“Not very well, if I’m honest. But it hasn’t been as bad as this. I think running around in the corridor agitated it.”

Draco cocked his head, trying to convey the phrase, _See what happens when you’re a rash idiot?_ and Potter scowled and looked away.

While his legs and half his arse were beneath the surface, there were a great many runes spread up his back and flanks now, fading to dull pink and then to nothing as they moved up his body. Those had to be chilled, too. It wouldn’t do to stick Potter in the shower; the pelting water would irritate him if touching a tub surface did. Draco sighed, promised any gods who were listening that he was doing this because he had no other choice, and reached for a sponge.

“Sorry,” Potter said gruffly, as Draco sat on the edge of the tub. “I know you have better things to be doing.”

“I have nothing dire to tend to, Colonel.”

He snorted. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“No? Funny, I wish you’d start calling me _Healer Malfoy_.”

Potter looked over his shoulder. His lips twitched. Just as fast, he grimaced and braced himself on the porcelain, for Draco had squeezed the first sponge full of frigid water down his back.

“All right?” Draco asked.

Potter nodded.

“How’s the front?” He indicated Potter’s groin, which was hazily visible through the water, cock and balls drawn in, safe against the warmth of his body.

“Still good.”

Draco just bet it was. 

He dipped the sponge into the water again, and Potter continued to shudder under the coolness. Draco tried to be proper. He tried not think about how the muscles of Potter’s buttocks contracted, how his shoulders drew back, causing his arms to tense and define, and he certainly tried not to think about the dark, heavy flesh between Potter’s legs, bare for Draco’s gaze, only inches away.

“Lift your arms.”

Potter placed his hands on the back of his head, elbows pointing up, revealing the Chinese markings on his flanks.

Draco could have sworn Potter was smiling as he sponged him, if only subtly behind his closed eyes, but he didn’t look long enough to question it, too busy examining the narrowness of Potter’s waist beneath the fullness of his chest and back. Good lord. He knew Potter had been fit at university—whether it was the result of him playing for the school Quidditch team (go Dragons) or the result of some training having to do with Potter’s Defence Magic program, Draco couldn’t say—but that had been a wiry sort of fitness, not far off from the frame he sported at Hogwarts. As a man of nearly thirty, Potter was anything but wiry. To Draco, he evoked images of Greek Olympians, with the back and shoulders of discus thrower and the arms of boxer. As he pressed the sponge just beneath the hair of Potter’s armpit, the water flowed over olive, soft-looking skin, which ceased abruptly when his eyes travelled to Potter’s front, cut off by a sheet of black hair in stark contrast to the rest of him. Draco wasn’t normally a fan of body hair, but Potter made it look compulsory. And it really added to the rugged man-in-uniform effect.

As he eased out of his daydreaming, realized he was sponging much higher than the runes had spread. In fact, he was working the sponge slowly over Potter’s shoulder blade, dipping down into the muscle between the blade and his spine, and then pushing back up again firmly. Before he stopped, Potter dropped his chin to his chest and let out a quiet groan.

Draco shut his eyes. It would not do to let on how arousing he’d found that noise. Surely, it had been involuntary and Potter was allowing Draco to massage him out of some residual Gryffindor nicety that Draco couldn’t possibly understand. How embarrassing. Also embarrassing was the fact that Draco’s erection was blatant. Lucky Potter wasn’t facing him. He flapped his healer robes into his lap, covering the protrusion, pointless because next he stood up and announced, “You’re done.”

Potter was much steadier on his feet this time. He stood, rivulets of water snaking through his body hair and off a decent-sized cock that Draco was trying very hard not to notice, and stared at Draco seriously.

“I should tell you something.”

For some reason, Draco’s heart skipped a beat. “Then tell me.”

“We’re trapped.”

“Sorry?”

Potter sighed, casting a drying charm on himself and pulling on his shorts. “We’re trapped here. The Death Eaters have pushed us as far up to the mountain range as we can go. They’re surrounding us on either side, and I don’t have faith we can make it up the mountain without them blasting us from behind.” 

“Well,” Draco tried to say confidently, though a pit was forming in his stomach, “you just told Weasley yesterday that reinforcements were coming.”

“They are. But it’s not as cut and dry as it sounds.” He reached out, thumb grazing Draco’s neck as he slid his arm over his shoulder, and Draco helped him towards the bed, where he settled in with a groan like he’d just finished a marathon. “You know where we are. Mongolia borders only China and Russia. The first won’t let Allies through because they’re claiming neutrality. The second is a Death Eater state. The only option our reinforcements have is to go through Kazakhstan and then try and sneak through one of the other two countries at night. But I have a hunch the Death Eaters are expecting this.”

“We could Apparate out.”

“Long distance Apparition is dangerous, especially for the weak and wounded. I won’t consider it unless it’s a last resort, and even then, most of us will end up Splinched.” He cast a glance at his own malady. “It’s not working, is it? The potion.”

Draco crossed his arms, prepared to argue. But Potter’s grave expression compelled him to admit, “No.”

“I thought you knew what this curse was.”

“I’m positive what it is.” He’d double-checked _The Healer’s Helpmate_ just last night. “And I’m positive about the remedy. Ice baths followed by darklock and winter coral infusions every eight hours. It’s supposed to heal completely within 24 hours, but it’s been almost that now, and you only seem to be getting worse. Maybe you’re defective, Potter.”

He didn’t seem surprised that Draco was blaming his lack of healing on something other than the medical care. He held out a hand. “May I see that book?”

Draco’s arms tightened across his chest. “Pardon me, do I go around asking to look at your strategy plans and maps of the field?”

The hand didn’t budge. Draco sighed. He supposed it was _Potter’s_ life on the line (plus that life looked really sexy in just navy blue boxer briefs, and the world couldn’t very well lose that). He pulled _The Healer’s Helpmate_ out of his robes.

After reading the profile for the Chinese Flesh-Fire Curse, Potter said needlessly, “Seems to fit.” He pointed to some Mandarin writing on the opposite page. “But what’s this mean?”

“It’s the diagnosis, prognosis, and treatment in the original language. The author likes to include these sorts of things when the malady is derived from an isolated region, like this one. Suppose it makes him feel authentic.”

“And you can read it?”

“Course not. But it’s right there in English.”

“Hm. Hermione has plenty of books in her tent on Chinese language and history.”

He was looking at Draco from beneath his lashes, not having to say the rest. _You may have missed something in translation._

Draco snatched the book. “Look, Potter, it’s pretty straightforward. The curse is elemental.” He pointed to a fire symbol at the bottom of the page, which was the author’s method for categorizing the classes of magic. “Elemental fire curses are soothed with ice, hence ice baths, and cured with herbs of their opposing element, as well. A darklock and winter coral infusion is the perfect solution.”

Potter’s jaw muscle was working again. He was looking at his hands, clearly frustrated.

“Good God,” Draco said, raking a hand through his hair. “All right, I guess I can go borrow some of Granger’s books, but I doubt it’ll do much good. If this doesn’t heal by tomorrow, that’s all the more reason why we should be Apparating you out of here. There’s a diagnostic hospital in Zurich that could—”

“I’m not Apparating. Not without seeing everyone out safely.”

“Fine, it’s your life.” He did not wish to admit that the idea of Potter succumbing made him very ill, indeed. “Why’d you tell me all that? The stuff about being trapped. I know you’re meant to keep that to yourself.”

Potter shrugged. “Thought you should know.”

“But why me and not the others? You’re mates with Dean Thomas. And went to Hogwarts with Abbott and Edgecombe, too.”

“I’m not telling you because I _know_ you. I’m telling you because...” He stuck his tongue into his cheek, searching for the words. “I don’t know. But I trust you.” There was another trust-related question to which Draco wanted the answer. _Why do you refuse care from medics other than me?_ He didn’t ask, for Potter was adding, “That’s why I chose you to come along, you know.”

Draco frowned, sinking onto the bed. “I thought it was a random assignment.”

“Usually is.” He covered his face with his hand, scrubbing tiredly. “Malfoy...I’ve been betrayed by a good many people since the beginning of the war, especially since Voldemort went down. When the Death Eaters started getting powerful again, people from our side started defecting and leaving Europe every day. I don’t care if they were scared. It was wrong. It was cowardly. It should have been easy for you to run off, too, when your mum and dad did. But you didn’t. You stayed, and you’ve been with us for a decade and that’s amazing. Your bravery. I’ve always admired that. I wanted someone like you leading our healing team.” His eyes flicked over Draco’s face, softer than Draco had seen them in quite a while. “And I know for a fact you wouldn’t betray me.” 

Draco looked away to hide his flattery. And flushing. When he looked back, he realized, “But Longbottom went through med school, too.”

Potter gave him a look that made it clear what he thought of Longbottom’s medical abilities. Draco agreed. The chap would have made a better pharmacist or herbologist. 

“Right. Well, thanks, Potter.”

Draco made to tap him on the arm. Potter seemed to mistake the motion for a handshake. Their fingers interlocked, and their eyes met, and Draco was stricken by the realization that Potter’s eyes were gold around the edges, and for some reason that he could not explain medically the warmth from Potter’s skin jumped directly from Draco’s hand to his cock, and his breath audibly hitched and he lurched back.

Potter was smiling. Actually _smiling_ , something Draco hadn’t seen in years. His profound handsomeness did nothing to help Draco’s state.

“Sorry,” Potter said, suppressing the smile into an uncomfortable chuckle.

“Yeah. Er, I’d better go check on some things.”

“Malfoy—”

Draco looked back probably faster than he ought to have. 

Potter looked forlorn again. “Don’t tell anyone about Hermione. They’re already whispering about whether we’re going to make it out of here. I don’t want them to know one of our own is lost.”

“I won’t if you don’t go wandering around alone in the field again.”

The smile returned, small and roguish this time. “Deal.”

\\\\\\*///

The next day, it was clear Edgecombe _was_ avoiding Room 5. As for Abbott, it was her day off. Draco didn’t even bother asking the orderlies to tend to Potter, mostly because he was man enough to admit that if anyone were going to feel uncomfortable giving the colonel a sponge bath he was about three wanks past knowing it should be him.

There would probably be no secret erections today, as upon entering Room 5, not only was a stormy-looking Ron Weasley present but also the unembodied head of Hestia Jones, apparently floo-calling from within a conjured flame floating next to Potter’s bed. Draco had only seen Jones in photographs, and her plump, cheerful face had grown severe since Shacklebolt appointed her General of the Magical Military. Her cheeks were now hollow, her hair in a tight bun, her speech short, and her general’s cap low over her eyes. She took no notice of Draco as he came in and began preparing Potter’s medication slowly in the corner. 

“I expect the French Guard will cross the Russian border tomorrow afternoon, Colonel. They’ll come bearing portkeys.”

Potter nodded solemnly. “Later than we expected.”

“The Death Eaters anticipated our first mission. The Guard was meant to Apparate into Kazakhstan and from there to Mongolia, but it seems their forces have placed anti-Apparition wards all around you. They’ll get you out. They’ll just have to be sneakier about it.”

“And once we leave? What’ll happen to the wizarding population here? Not to mention the Muggles?”

“I can’t say for certain, Colonel.”

“Have our forces to the north pulled out, as well?” he pressed.

Jones looked hard at him, but said nothing. Draco wasn’t privy to many of the military’s ins and outs, but he had a hunch her silence meant Mongolia would be lost. It would mean a death sentence to the native Muggles. That wasn’t the worst of it. Draco had read the articles. He’d overheard enough from military personnel. If the Death Eaters went through Mongolia to breach China, started making deals with them—or, if China resisted, started marching forcefully into their territory—it could mean the end of the war, and not in the Allies’ favour. They needed China’s weapons and, at the very least, their neutrality, given that they housed about a quarter of the world’s wizarding population. If they lost _both_ to the Death Eaters—well, there was no use thinking about it. It wasn’t an option. 

Weasley was staring out the window with his mouth pursed. “I’m staying behind.”

Jones turned sharply. “That’s not an option.”

“I am, too, General,” Potter said, unable to look either of them in the eye.

“What in the name of—? We need you both back in Britain to begin strategizing for the next stage. Besides, two men staying in Mongolia will not be the difference between losing that territory or retaining it.”

“That’s not why.” Potter grimaced. Draco thought he was grimacing out of guilt, and then noticed he was clutching his leg beneath the covers. 

“What is it, then?” Jones demanded.

Reluctantly, Potter said, “It’s Hermione. Ron’s wife. She went out on her own a couple days ago, wanting to do some research in the local caves. We haven’t seen her since.”

The general’s eyes went as sharp as pins. “She’s a civilian?”

“Yes, madam.” His voice was barely audible.

“And you authorized this, Potter? Or did Weasley sneak her in?”

Weasley started to say, “Hermione and me—”

Potter held up a hand. “It was me. I take responsibility.”

She took a burdened breath. “I am obliged let you know you’ve broken a number of rules, Colonel Potter. You, as well, Lieutenant-Colonel. It will be dealt with upon your return. Not only that, but I cannot allow you to abandon your duties, even for the sake of Mrs Weasley—not without facing a full court-marshalling and quite possibly the loss of your posts. This is why spouses are not allowed in the same regiments.” Her eyes flitted around, as if she were checking to be certain she was alone. “That being said, if I were never to find out about you abandoning the mission...if you were somehow left behind in Mongolia by accident...I don’t see how that could be a punishable offense.”

Potter and Weasley traded a look and nodded.

“Tell me, Potter. Is this the reason you _accidently_ went into Chinese territory on your broom? To look for your friend’s wife?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Then I don’t need to tell you how dangerous this will be.” Her voice softened. “And how impressed I continue to be with your courage. Best of luck.”

When the flame vanished, Weasley said, “We won’t need luck, we’ll need a bloody second army.”

“So you’re talking to me again?” Potter muttered.

“May as well. You tried to take the blame for something that was really my fault. Plus—” Weasley looked outside again. Draco could see now that there was a broom on the ground shredded to splinters; perhaps Weasley had destroyed it while he was searching for Granger. “Well, I need you more than ever right now,” he finished.

Potter squeezed Weasley’s hand. It was probably meant to be a comforting gesture, but when he bore down and gritted his teeth, it simply gave the impression he was fighting the impending birth of a child. 

“That bad, still?” Weasley asked. “Malfoy, when’s he going to be up and about?”

“It’s hard to—”

“By tonight,” Potter interjected. “Malfoy tweaked the potion, and he’s confident I’ll be ready by tonight. We’ll set out together to find Hermione then.”

“Right.” Weasley gave them both a strange, lingering look, and turned on his heel. “I’ll get our bags ready and meet you at 15:00 hours. We don’t want to fly. Death Eaters are on the lookout for brooms.”

“One moment, Lieutenant-Colonel,” Draco said, meeting Weasley at the door. He’d prepared the blue potion, but seeing how Potter flinched every time he shifted his weight, he knew something was still not right. “Potter was telling me your wife might have some books on Chinese language in your tent. Would you mind if I borrowed them?”

“Er, sure. What do you need them for?”

Behind Weasley’s back, Potter was widening his eyes and shaking his head.

He lifted a shoulder. “Just curious. Since we’re in the region, and all. He thought they might interest me. He’s more thoughtful than he looks,” Draco added, at which point Potter’s head-shaking turned a bit scornful.

Weasley looked between them. He narrowed his eyes like he was in the middle of solving a puzzle, and asked, “So, are you two—?”

“No, Ron,” Potter said quickly. 

“Are we _what_?” Draco asked.

“Er...bonkers,” Weasley said, backing towards the door. “You must be if you want to study in the middle of a combat zone.” He made an apologetic face at Potter and disappeared.

Getting Potter into the tub was even harder than not asking him what the fuck had just happened. He couldn’t bend his knees today, so Draco ended up levitating him into the tub and having him stand upright. As erotic as it should have been, crouching in front of Potter, all Draco felt was concerned. The runes were blood red and finally creeping onto his cock and balls. He started sponging the area, wanting to keep it as cool as possible.

“We need to talk about your reproductive health,” Draco said cautiously.

Potter snorted. “Doubt I would have had kids, anyway.” He paused. “Can you tell for certain?”

“Not with a spell. If you provided a sample, I could run some tests.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Draco didn’t know if that spoke of Potter’s sexuality, his confidence he’d die before reproducing, or both. He didn’t ask. He had more acute concerns, seeing how the runes had travelled so far in just a couple days.

“Potter,” he said, working his way up. He was trying to sound calm, but was certain his fear showed through. “You can’t go out tonight. You need to get to a proper hospital and see a specialist.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“I can only stave this off for so long. You’re getting worse. If we don’t figure out what’s wrong, you’ll die.”

“Then I’ll die. Won’t be the first time.”

Draco certainly didn’t know what to say to that. He tossed the sponge in the water.

Potter bent over, stretching his fingers as far as they would reach to the tub base, and then lifted each knee toward the ceiling. “Much better, thank you.”

Draco knew he would flare up again in a few hours. “If we stick you in a full-on ice bath before you set out, you should have a good eight hours without runes on your body. It’ll take about thirty minutes, and it’ll be painful, but you’ll need the extra time if you’re going to be gallivanting around looking for Granger.”

“Great. I’ll do it.” 

Just as Potter was pulling on his shorts, Nurse Edgecombe burst into the room. For once, she wasn’t cold-faced. “Colonel, some men have just shown up! They’re looking for—”

The curtain flapped open. Three soldiers marched in, their boots stamping in unison on the soft tent floor. Draco didn’t recognize their blue military robes immediately.

“Colonel Potter,” the man in front said, his voice heavy with French inflections. “I am Commandant Gaillard, and I am here to help organize zee retreat.”

“Gabrielle,” Potter blurted, looking at one of the soldiers in back, a slight, blond woman with delicate facial structure. Her eyes brightened, but otherwise she made no reaction.

Gaillard cleared his throat. “Zere is no time for small talk, Colonel. Zee Death Eaters will notice we downed zere patrol before long. Please initiate your evacuation drill, and we will begin implementing zee portkeys.”

“Er—I thought you wouldn’t be here till tomorrow.” Potter edged behind the privacy screen to pull on his uniform. Or so it appeared. When he was concealed, he looked at Draco through the crack and mouthed, _Get Ron_.

Draco tried to nod with his eyes alone. He edged around the French soldiers, while Gaillard was saying, “Whoever told you zat was either misinformed or in possession of zee old information. We will begin at once, using one portkey every hour, so as not to draw zee attention—” 

Once in the corridor, he broke into a sprint.

“ _Healer Malfoy_ ,” Edgecombe called out.

“No time! Secure all the unstable patients!”

Draco pushed through the soldiers doing marching drills outside the infirmary tent. Their sergeant turned red and tried to flag him down, but there no time to explain. He flew past soldiers loitering outside their barracks, some stretching, some smoking, some sticking letters into air-tight bottles to be sent downriver to the owling station. Others were sitting in circles playing chess or cards; one shouted, “Fuck you, Dumbledores are high—not low!” A man wandering out of his tent, distracted by a floating mirror as he brushed shaving cream on his face, nearly barrelled into Draco. Perhaps it was the other way around. No matter! He had to find, “Weasley!”

The man in question looked up, mouth bulging with sandwich, as Draco burst into his tent. From the outside it had appeared to be a one-man structure; from the inside, Draco could see Granger had been nesting. It was practically a full-family cottage in here. Once again, no time.

“The reinforcements are here. Potter sent me to tell you.”

Weasley’s eyes went round. “No! Already?” He tossed aside the sandwich and waved his wand. His knapsack started packing itself, as he strapped on what looked to be a bulletproof vest (by the sheen on it, it was probably curse-proof, too), a forest-grade camouflage jacket, which Draco didn’t see the point of with all that flaming-orange hair on top, and a huge automatic rifle.

“They were French?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“How’s Harry?”

“He’s—” Draco considered lying, but didn’t see the benefit. “He’s not well.”

“Fuck,” he muttered, shouldering the knapsack. There were horns blasting outside. Men were starting to shout commands and break down their tents. Weasley stared hard at Draco. “Look, I need a favour.”

“What is it?” 

“I thought we’d have more time. And I thought Harry would have healed by now. We need to split up and cover as much ground as possible searching for Hermione.”

Draco’s heart stilled. He knew what Weasley was asking. 

“You want me to come?”

“Yes. I want you to go with Harry and look after him while he’s sick.” He took a roll of parchment out of his back pocket, spreading it out on the kitchen table. “This is the mountain range Hermione went to—or so the books she left open made it seem. I think she went searching for some historical shit in these caves here, judging by her notes.” He indicated a small offshoot of the mountain range, not far into China. “If I start at this end, and you and Harry start at the other end, then we’ll be sure to find her.”

“Weasley,” Draco said weakly. Honestly, he liked Granger. They had sort of a history, the two of them. And he certainly liked Potter. But there was a reason why Draco had been Sorted into Slytherin: he wasn’t a bullheaded cretin with a death wish. And he’d heard stories about Allies who sought refuge in China, much less wandered in for the fun of it.

Weasley’s eyes shined with entreaty. “Malfoy, please. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything. My wife’s in trouble, and now Harry....” He shook his head. “I just can’t lose both of them.”

Draco slumped at the table. He wasn’t a soldier. He was physician. Which, he supposed was rather the point. He’d treated Potter thus far, and he didn’t want him to die just because he, Draco, was too chicken-shit to go camp under a mountain for a night or two. 

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he moaned. “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks. Harry was right about you.”

No time to question that either. 

On the way out the door, Draco remembered. “Oh, the books!”

Weasley quirked an eyebrow. “What is _wrong_ with you and Hermione? They’re on the nightstand. I’ll go get Harry’s things, and we’ll use his invisibility cloak to sneak out of here. Meet us behind the infirmary at 11:00 hours.”

\\\\\\*///

11:00 hours turned out to be in fifteen minutes. Draco shrank all of his belongings into a knapsack, threw it on with the closest outfit he had to pass for a combat uniform (some expensive hiking gear, complete with a canvas jacket, brown boots, and sweat-proof Ray-Bans), and attempted to look casual as he dodged the soldiers flitting around camp. The Frenchmen at the infirmary entrance paid him no mind as he slipped around them smoking a cigarette.

Behind the infirmary, Potter and Weasley were arguing.

“Ron, you can’t go alone. It’s insane.”

“What, you want us to wander around in China for days and miss the last portkey group?”

“We’ll probably miss them anyway. You may as well stay with us.”

“No. We need a strategy that leaves room for rescue. It’s safer for Hermione like this, too.”

“Damn it,” Potter snapped. “At least, go find someone to take with you. How about Dean? Or one of the captains?”

A gangly man, hardly seventeen, was walking by with a crate of spare wands. He stopped what he was doing, saluted Potter and Weasley, who begrudgingly reciprocated, and then scuttled off.

“No,” Weasley said, looking after him. “I won’t ask this of anyone else.”

Draco simply had to chime in. “Need I remind you, you asked me?”

“You’re different.” He waved a freckled hand. “You’d have no problem lying under oath if it came down to it.” Draco suppressed the urge to argue. Weasley was spot on. Until he added, “Plus... _well_...you know.”

No, Draco did not know! He opened his mouth, but Potter interjected.

“Look, Ron. I’m sorry about Hermione, but I won’t go out and search for her if you try to do this alone. You matter to me just as much. So, you can come with me and Malfoy or you can find a partner.”

Weasley went tomato red. Behind him, someone said, “I’ll go with him.”

They turned. Marietta Edgecombe was slipping out of the tent.

“Marietta,” Potter said hesitantly.

“No, Harry. I feel I still have something to prove to you. Plus, I like Hermione, despite our past differences.” Her hand flitted to her forehead, as if to scratch an itch. “I want to help.”

Potter and Weasley traded a significant look.

“All right,” Potter said, nodding slowly. He looked at Draco. “Are you armed?”

Draco cocked an _are-you-stupid?_ eyebrow, and pulled out his wand.

“No.” Potter stuck a hand behind his back and produced a pistol. He held it out to Draco barrel down. “Take it.”

“I don’t—I’ve never—”

“Death Eaters know to block curses, but not always bullets. Plus, you’ll need a spare weapon in the event something happens to your wand. I happen to know it isn’t difficult to wrestle off you.”

He ignored Draco’s indignant cry and showed him how to remove the magazine, insert the magazine, cock the gun, and some other stuff Draco hardly noticed because Potter was standing awfully close to his back. Weasley was doing the same with Edgecombe, and she gave Draco a tragic look that made him think she was regretting this already.

In the end, all four of them somehow fit under the invisibility cloak. Their pace was terribly slow. It was hard to orchestrate eight separate legs, plus Potter was struggling already. After walking up the slope that led them out of the grassy plain where their base was located and past two Muggles on horseback, Weasley decided they were far enough from camp to take off the cloak.

“We’ve got a ways to walk until the border, but we should move faster now.” He cast a concerned look at Potter, who had both hands on his knees and was breathing hard. “Mate.”

“I’m good.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I heard a stream back there,” said Edgecombe. She put a hand to her eyes, blocking the wind. “I think there’s a ridge with a stream below it, just over that hill.”

“Right.” Potter dropped his knapsack and walked in the direction she was pointing, like a man stiff from a full-body sunburn.

“Nurse Edgecombe,” Draco said, tossing his head at Potter.

“Yes, sir.” She hurried after.

Weasley had busied himself, pulling out a fist full of sandwiches. Draco didn’t know what was with this fellow and sandwiches, but that wasn’t what he stayed behind to ask. He put his sunglasses on his head, and crossed his arms.

“What did you mean earlier?”

Weasley frowned, his gob filled with rye and some kind of tube meat. “Dunno. I’ve said rather a lot today.” He took another bite.

“Don’t play dumb. You implied something about Potter and me. You did it in the hospital room, too. What are you on about?”

“Sorry, Malfoy. I keep forgetting it’s not common knowledge.”

“ _What’s_ not?” 

He heaved a sigh, looking deeply uncomfortable. “That he fancies you.”

Draco touched his face. Yes. He was awake. “And you’ve been letting me _sponge bathe_ him for two days without letting on?”

“You’ve been sponge bathing him?” Weasley threw his head back and laughed. “Good for Harry. That pervert.”

Draco put his hands on his hips and looked around. Which probably appeared very stupid, because there was nothing to actually look at, just an expanse of tall grass beneath the shadow of a blue, snow-capped mountain range. There were no houses, no roads, no Muggles, just Weasley and his smelly lunch.

“How long have you known?” Draco demanded.

He shrugged, jaw working. “Since uni.”

“What! Then I take it other people know?”

“Only Hermione. And probably Neville. Oh, and Dean. I dunno, Malfoy. It was just something he dropped on us back then. We were probably pissed at the time. I don’t know if it’s still true—been a long time—but he’s never taken it back, has he? I just assumed that was why he wanted your help at the hospital. I mean if I were hurt, and Hermione were the nurse...” He smiled slowly. “Yeah.”

“Good Lord.” Draco held his stomach. He didn’t know if he was overjoyed or if he wanted to punch Potter in the face for keeping this a secret. It didn’t matter if Draco had been doing the same thing. It was the principle! Or something!

Weasley, of course, misinterpreted his reaction and held out the other half of his sandwich.

Draco leaned back. “What is it?”

“Braunschweiger, mustard, onion—”

“No, no, no.” 

“Your loss.”

When the other two returned, with Potter looking as spry as one of the many jackrabbits crossing their path, they hiked for the border, stopping only minutes away on the crest of a rocky ridge above a forest, to administer Potter’s potion and double check the map. 

“We’re close,” Weasley said. “We should get to the caves well before sunset. Harry, what path do you think is better? The trees give us cover, but the steppe is more direct.”

Draco was pretty sure Edgecombe was trying to engage him in small talk, but he’d zoned out. He couldn’t stop replaying his conversation with Weasley, and he couldn’t stop staring at Potter while he did it: the way he crouched next to Weasley, thighs spread wide, a bulge apparent between his legs, his brown hands clasped in thought. An image like that had been enough to drive Draco mad _before_ he knew Potter was attracted to him. Now...well, you may as well have tossed him in the loony bin.

“Get over here,” Potter was hissing.

Draco found himself under the invisibility cloak.

“What’s—?”

“Flying patrol. Didn’t you hear me ask for your Focoscope?” Potter put his finger to his lips after that. His arm was still around Draco, his opposite hand gripping an AR-15. Weasley was silent, his rifle ready. Edgecombe looked terrified. They stayed under the cloak for ten minutes, until Potter said, “I think it’s safe to check,” and let Draco go.

They examined the sky. Nothing but impending rain.

“Death Eaters or Chinese?” Edgecombe wondered.

“There was only one rider,” Potter said, as they started a brisk pace. “Probably a Death Eater, by his uniform.”

Her voice began to shake. “If they can just come into Mongolia like that, then why haven’t they attacked us from this side?”

“Deterrent wards. They can only locate us during battle. Or when one of our men steps out of the ward bounds. Like we’re doing now.” He looked at her, and grasped her elbow lightly. “Hey, we’ll be fine.”

Wanting cover, they took the path through the trees. After a while, when the air grew quite cool and crickets began to chirp, Weasley pointed. “You see that shadowy area between those pines? That’s the closest entrance.”

“Right,” Potter said, his eyebrows drawing together. “I guess this is where we part. You can Apparate once you’re over the border, right?”

“Yeah.” Weasley thrust out the invisibility cloak. “Here, take this. If your legs start to bother you, you’ll want the extra protection.”

“No way. You’re Apparating in China in broad daylight. You’d be a fool not to take it. Don’t argue with me this time.”

Draco and Edgecombe traded a glance, as if to wonder why _their_ opinions didn’t matter, but they didn’t speak. There was something endearing about the exchange before them. 

Weasley pulled Potter close and murmured, “Be safe.”

“You, too. And watch out for farms. They seem to bite around here.”

“Right,” he chuckled, but his heart didn’t seem in it. “Remember, if we don’t find each other in the cave, we meet here in 12 hours. I just hope that’s enough time to find ‘Mione.”

“24 hours,” Potter amended.

“What? Harry, no. Your legs.”

“I fucked up my legs looking for Hermione. If this curse is going to take me out, then it’ll probably do it no matter what. I don’t want it to be in vain. 24 hours to find her, or else we meet on this ridge.”

Weasley was pale in contrast to his watery, blue eyes. He embraced Potter again, and then rustled off into the forest with Edgecombe.

Potter slung on his bag and the AR-15. “Sorry, you’re stuck with me.” They made their way down the hill, sliding on pine needles. Potter entered the cave first. Draco waited to see his wand light up, a bright beacon in the darkness, and then followed. He wasn’t sorry at all.

\\\\\\*///

Draco was reaching into his pocket for his coin pouch when someone leaned over his shoulder and tossed a galleon at the barmaid.

He turned. 

Harry Potter was grinning at him like an arrogant sod. “Come around these parts much?”

If Draco weren’t falling-on-his-arse drunk, he’d have punched Potter in the nose. Instead, he rolled his eyes, said, “Shut up, Gryffindor,” and walked away with his pint.

“Oy!” Potter scrambled to catch up. He walked backwards in front of Draco, somehow managing to navigate through the crowd in the pub without looking. “There are no Gryffindors and Slytherins here. Only Dragons. Manchester Dragons!” He gripped his hoodie, shook the mascot, and growled.

Draco hated himself for finding the display adorable. He turned up his nose, and said, “I assure you, Potter, there _are_ still Gryffindors and Slytherins, and if you’ll excuse me, we Slytherins are sitting—”

His mouth fell open. His friends had ditched him!

“Huh.” Potter stood entirely too close to him, sipping his own pint. “Slytherins are ghostly sorts, aren’t they?”

Draco whirled around. “If we weren’t on campus, I’d—I’d hex this beer stein right up your arsehole!” He shoved it into Potter’s free hand and turned to leave, bumping right into Neville Longbottom’s chest, the tall bugger.

“Oh, good to see you!” he said, steadying Draco’s shoulder. “Tough week, right? Those elemental curse charts are so confusing. Can I buy you a pint of something?”

Draco took a calming breath. He was growing rather fond of Longbottom, even though he had no place in the wizio-med program, and didn’t want Potter to muck up one of the few friendships he had with someone not a former Death Eater. He shook his head, eyes flicking around for an escape route.

“Already got him one, Nev. Let’s go sit. Hermione and Ron are—”

“Excuse me, you weren’t _getting_ me a drink,” Draco couldn’t help spitting. “You were just being an arse.”

Potter’s eyebrows lowered in that smouldering, cocky sort of fashion, and Draco simultaneously wanted to knee him in the groin and, also, do other things to his groin.

“I’m sorry, look—” He stuck the beer back into Draco’s hand. “There you go. I bought it because I wanted to invite you to our table, that’s all.”

“Why?”

“Because why not? Right, Nev?”

Longbottom was shaking his head, more wizened-looking than Draco had ever seen him. He said nothing but, “Right,” and, “It’d be cool if you joined us, Draco.”

So, for some reason left unexplained for years to come, Draco ended up at a table with Potter, Longbottom, Weasley, Granger, and Dean Thomas. He was smashed between Granger, who he didn’t really mind so much, and Potter, who he minded a whole lot. He minded because being firm and slender and having the smile of a cinema star wasn’t enough. Potter really was an arsehole. And his hair was stupid as fuck. 

“You guys know what you’re going to do when you graduate?” Longbottom asked the table.

Potter stretched out, resting his arm on the back of Draco’s seat. “Figure I’ll be an Auror.”

“Oh? I figured you for joining up with Shacklebolt’s new military,” said Thomas.

“That’s just a rumour,” Granger exclaimed. She looked around. “Don’t you think?”

Either no one had an opinion or they were busy with their drinks.

Draco turned to her. “Don’t know. But if they do form one, I’m joining the medical corps. The money will be to die for.” In spite of himself, he laughed. “Literally!”

Granger elbowed him, smiling.

“Thought you came from money,” said Thomas, looking distrustingly over the rim of his pint.

The whole table looked at Draco, and he felt himself break into gooseflesh. It was well published that Draco’s parents had fled to South America when Death Eater sects starting popping up again in Europe; they’d closed all their British accounts, sold the manor, freed the elves, and sent Draco a brief Patronus message. _Meet us in Buenos Aires_. He had not. And Thomas knew as well as anyone what that meant.

“Dean,” Potter said, low in his throat. 

Draco shivered. Damn it all.

“Sorry, Malfoy,” Thomas muttered, eyebrows still low.

Weasley was looking at Potter. He seemed to be thinking something heavier than he was saying aloud. “So, that’s a _no_ , mate? On the military thing? If it forms, that is.”

Potter scratched the bridge of his nose with his glasses. Now that everyone was looking at _him_ , Draco was extraordinarily conscious of the way Potter’s arm appeared to be around him, the way his hand was hovering close to Draco’s neck, not really touching. He knew it was just a casual position, the self-assured spreading-out of a bloke who thought he could mark his territory just by taking up more space than all the other blokes, but Draco realized that in an alternative universe a passerby might look at them and assume they were a couple. At last, Potter said, “I really don’t know.”

“We’d need you, is all,” Weasley said. It was like there was already a _we_.

“It’s the power thing, you know?” Potter burst out. No one seemed to understand. “Come on, a full-on magical military? Don’t you think that’s a scary idea? How could a body like that choose to influence the world?”

“You’ve got a point.” Granger took a long sip, nodding. “But Kingsley said during his last press conference that he’d want to disband after all these Death Eater groups are broken up.”

“But notice the language. He didn’t say _once the Death Eaters are broken up_ —even if he had, that’s not very specific. He said _once the world is safe from Dark magic_.”

Thomas shrugged. “So? That’s a good thing.”

“So?” Potter looked around like he couldn’t believe no one was clamouring to agree with him. “That’s an incredibly vague statement. Do you really think people give up power once they have it?”

“I mean, not usually,” Weasley reasoned. “But it’s Kingsley. He means well.”

“Who doesn’t mean well? Do you think Voldemort didn’t mean well?”

The name still made Draco sick. Looking around the table, he knew he wasn’t alone.

Weasley leaned over his pint, trying to remain jovial, but there was urgency in his eyes. “You can’t compare Kingsley Shacklebolt to You-Know-Who, Harry.”

“I’m not. That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?” Longbottom asked, his eyes shining in the candlelight like he thought Potter held all the answers to all the secrets in the world.

“I already said. People don’t give up power once they have it. They only want to expand their power. Not saying Kingsley's bad. But once the military forms, it’s not going anywhere. We’ll have a permanent magical military, and all the trappings that go with it. Probably one in every country by the way sentiment is spreading.”

They all drank. Except for Potter, who stared into his stein.

Draco didn’t know why he felt the urge to comfort him. He licked his lips, leaning over, and said quietly to Potter, “We’ve got no choice, though.”

His eyes rose. “Hm?”

“Death Eater culture has all but consumed North Africa, and it’s moving into the Middle East. They say Asia is next. We have to do something more proactive. Everyone here—we all know first hand that Death Eaters are willing to use force to spread their ideology. There’s a point where _we’ve_ got to use force, too. Or else all of us—especially people like Granger and Thomas—will be in a load of trouble.”

He could feel Thomas listening, though he was using his wand to etch his initials into the tabletop, alongside dozens of others.

“You’re right,” Potter said reluctantly. He shifted his arm. His fingers rustled against Draco’s collar. “It just sucks. Doesn’t it?”

“Very much.”

Draco focused on his beer. He could have sworn he saw Weasley smirking at them, Granger tilting her ear towards them, but at the time he simply assumed they were nosy. Over the next few months, Draco often sat with this group, somehow always ending up next to Potter, who bought him drinks and laughed a little too hard at his jokes and sometimes, when he was really drunk, put his mouth close to Draco’s ear and breathed, “I think it’s cool how you and Hermione are mates now. Like...really cool,” until he left university, two years before they were meant to graduate. He buzzed his stupid hair, which Draco didn’t realize he liked until it was gone, said his goodbyes, hugging Draco twice, and went off to join Shacklebolt’s military.

Draco didn’t see him again for nine years, when he found himself unpacking his bags on the frontlines of Potter’s regiment in Eurasia.

\\\\\\*///

They stumbled upon an underground stream. Potter wanted to push on, but Draco reasoned they didn’t know when they’d come by water next and told him to strip down and soak.

“Malfoy, we can’t afford to stop. Hermione—”

“Potter,” he snapped. “Doctor’s orders.”

That shut him up. Which was rather thrilling.

Draco stood nearby, wringing out his socks and trousers; in truth, they’d stumbled _into_ the stream, because it was so dark in this cavern that two Lumos spells illuminated only a four foot radius. But the water was shallow, not even covering Potter's thighs, and once he was finished sitting on his arse shivering they’d be able to wade across it. 

Draco cast a drying charm on their clothes, and thought of Weasley’s words again. He’d never seen any explicit evidence that Potter fancied him, but now, searching through his memories, he could speculate. Had Potter really been spreading out in the pub in an animalistic attempt to claim his territory? Or had he been sending a signal to Draco? What if _Draco_ had been his territory? And when Longbottom and Weasley shot them funny looks, were they actually thinking about Potter’s attraction to him? Or perhaps, right now, Weasley was taking the piss out of him. Perhaps it was just a tactic to keep Draco interested in the mission at hand.

Watching Potter struggle to submerge himself, Draco realized there was one way he could try and find out. He took off his shirt and waded towards Potter, clad only in his underwear.

“Let me get your back.”

Potter jumped. “Didn’t hear you coming. I must be out of it.”

“That’s not good,” he said, cupping his hands in the cold water. And it wasn’t. Disorientation was never a good sign. He made a note to check for fever. He put his hands to Potter’s shoulders and let the water flow down slowly. He did this for several minutes, until the runes were as pale as they were going to get. “Feel nice?” he asked, as Potter had started to hum quietly.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Really helps.”

“I’ll keep doing it. We can spare a few minutes.”

He got on his knees, careful not to wet his underwear. This time when he let the water flow, he left his bare hands on Potter’s shoulders. He flattened them, feeling the wide, hard muscle, and rolled his thumbs up in a massaging motion.

“Should ease some of the tension,” he murmured.

Potter’s breathing picked up. 

“Put your head back so I can get your chest.”

“Malfoy,” he whispered.

“Do it.”

Potter leaned back. His hair was brushing Draco’s chin. His chest was so large that Draco had to lift his head to look over his pectorals, and, sure enough, Potter’s cock was engorged where it lay against his thigh in the stream. The sight of it made Draco long to kiss him—just there on the temple, or on his lovely mouth—but he did not. He was still Draco’s patient and very ill, and he could not bare the thought of violating that trust.

Draco kept his eyes forward as he finished the bath, his Adam’s apple bobbing against Potter’s head every time a low whimper escaped his lips.

They dressed. Potter took his time, frowning, even though by the state of his runes Draco was sure he felt much better. For a while, as they trekked through many passages, some narrow and some leading to open caverns with streams where they filled their canteens, Potter gave him funny looks. Not looks of suspicion, as Draco first feared. By the second or third time, he realized Potter was trying to work up the nerve to say something. Maybe he would have, if not for the high-pitched moan in the distance.

Potter snapped to attention. “Did you hear that?”

“I think it was wind.”

They stopped, listened, and the caves moaned again.

“I think it was a scream. HERMIONE?”

Nothing called back but Potter’s own voice. 

“HERMIONE?” he bellowed again, hurrying down the tunnel. 

“Potter! Stop, it’s too dark!”

“I can hear her.”

“No, you can’t,” Draco said, grabbing his sleeve. Potter stopped, eyes flashing. “It’s the wind. I’m sure of it.”

He stared at Draco. Then he slumped against the wall, sliding down with his head in his hands. “You’re right.”

“It’s like you to be rash, but not silly, Potter.”

“It’s my fault she’s lost. I’ve got to get her out of here.”

“She’s a grown woman, who left on her own accord. You said it yourself.”

“But I’m—”

“Not responsible. No matter what Weasley said.”

“Helps to hear it from someone else, I guess.”

When it didn’t look like he was going to stand up immediately, Draco slid down next to him.

“Never thanked you for coming along,” Potter said, bumping their shoulders. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Why did you?”

“Dunno. Same reason as you. I give a shit.”

Potter laughed bitterly through his nose. “About Hermione.”

“Her, too.”

“Ah.”

There was silence in the tunnel, but Draco thought it was the comfortable kind.

Potter stretched up, helping Draco to his feet. “Come on, let’s move before I start to get worse again.”

A couple hours later, and Potter was worse. He never complained, but he was huffing air through his nose. Draco didn’t say anything as their pace slowed to a crawl. They didn’t come across any more streams. When Draco went to take a piss, he secretly tried to conjure ice water from his wand, but not knowing precisely where to derive it, he only managed a couple spurts of mist that shot out like needles.

“Think we’re in China officially?” Potter asked, trying to distract Draco from the fact that he was limping like an old man.

Draco spotted something reflecting their wand light back at them. He hurried over and examined it. “Judging by this, I’d wager so.”

It was a tiny sliver of stone, which had Chinese writing etched into it. On closer inspection, Draco realized it was not stone, but _bone_.

“Merlin, I know why she’s here,” he told Potter, eyes lighting up. “Have you heard of the Origins of Magic Scripts?”

“Er, it’s a Chinese thing.”

Draco gave him a _No, really?_ sort of look. “Anyway. They’re the first records of magic, and they say they were discovered here within this mountain range. Granger had the biggest hard-on for them at university. She’d talk my ear off about the history for hours. She theorized that there were more bones here, undiscovered.”

“Why’d she think that?”

“Because when you study the photographs that the Chinese Ministry is willing to release, you can tell that they don’t form an entire human skeleton. There are only two explanations: The rest of the bones have nothing of interest on them, or there are simply more bones out there.”

“Leave it to Hermione to kill us all over a history project.” 

Draco shrugged, pocketing the bone. “She did study Magical History in school.”

“You’re proving my point. She’s bonkers. Well, with any luck we’ll find her sleeping on a pile of these bones in short order.” He took a step, and immediately buckled. “Shit!”

Draco had him by the arm, straining to say, “Grab onto me. There you go. Come on, I’ll help you till we find a stream.”

“Fuck, this is humiliating.”

“I could levitate you.”

“That would be worse.”

It turned out not to matter. Potter’s runes flared up so much in the next twenty minutes, they were forced to stop in a small cavern with strange markings on the walls, which looked rather familiar to Draco. He didn’t want to worry Potter, but he was afraid they’d started retracing their steps.

“Let’s move, I’ll be fine,” Potter said, even as his hair was sticking to his forehead and his cheeks were as pale as the wand light. He stumbled onto his knees.

Draco pulled six square packets out of his knapsack. “Had a few of these things in the infirmary for emergencies. They’re cooling packs. Not enough for your whole body, but if we put them over your larger blood vessels, it should help stave off the fever. Lay down.”

He cracked the plastic with his hands, and when the packets grew ice cold he put them on Potter’s armpits, groin, and head. While Potter lay trying to steady his breathing, Draco prepared supper. The steps were thus: boil water, pour on freeze-dried noodles, and presto. Spaghetti bolognaise. MREs were less than ideal, but they hadn’t eaten all day. Draco consumed his ration in three bites. Potter refused to eat at all.

“Come on, at least drink,” Draco said, tipping the last of their water into Potter’s mouth.

His head fell back. “It’s never—been this bad—” 

“You shouldn’t have come.” He put his hand on Potter’s forehead. So very hot. He stroked off the sweat. “I shouldn’t have let you come.”

“Her—mione. We’ve got to go—”

“You’re not going anywhere.” 

He pulled down Potter’s shirt collar. The runes were all the way up to his collarbones now. On the one hand, it was good. If they were spreading superficially, that meant they weren’t travelling to his organs. On the other hand, it simply meant Potter was in more pain and his body was equally as taxed, and if the runes spread over the entirety of his skin surface they would have nowhere to go next but inward. 

They had to get out of this cave.

Draco took out his wand and said, “ _Mobilicorpus_!”

“NO!” Potter shrieked, flailing in the air. “Won’t—leave—without her!” 

“Don’t be stupid! You’ll never leave. You’ll be dead.”

Potter summoned enough energy to grab his own wand. “ _Finite_!”

He struck the ground hard. He curled in on himself, rolling onto his side, pressing his face into the cool ground. “We can’t leave without Ron, anyway. Don’t you dare abandon him, Malfoy.”

If this was what it was like being a Gryffindor, Draco had been Sorted right. He sighed. There was nothing to be done. He spread out a blanket, rolled Potter onto it, repositioned the cooling packs, and put his head into his hands.

\\\\\\*///

Potter fell into a fitful sleep late that night. They had 15 hours left to find Granger, and even if Potter were awake and on his feet, the consensus was they were lost. He may have been a courageous war colonel, but he didn’t have half of Weasley’s talent for strategy and planning. If Draco had heard him say, “Oh, let’s see where this tunnel takes us,” one more time, he might have tossed Potter into that tunnel and washed his hands of him.

He didn’t dare sleep. It was tempting to use the chill of the caves as an excuse to cuddle up to Potter, but it wouldn’t be the same, as sweaty and miserable as Potter clearly was. Draco watched over him, placing the last of his cooling packs on Potter’s armpits and over his heart when the first ones went warm. When there was nothing else he could do, he realized there _was_ something else. He huddled next to his tiny bonfire, lit a cigarette, and started thumbing through Granger’s language books.

The first was a Muggle tourist’s guide to Hong Kong. It taught you, “May I have some noodles?” and, “Please hold the chicken feet.”

The second was an old school book, meant to teach Chinese immigrants British English, and while he probably could have figured out the translations in reverse, it would have taken him weeks, not hours, to translate what he needed from _The Healer’s Helpmate_.

If Draco had a word for the last one, it was _cool_. It wasn’t even a book, but a thin sheet of black glass, whose surface warped with colour when you moved it, like the colours on the surface of an oil slick. It had been sandwiched between Granger’s language books, but it was not meant strictly for Chinese translation. When he touched it, the glass sprang to life with the words _The Ancient and Modern Words, Numbers, and Symbols of the World!_ so bright that he shielded his eyes in the dark cave.

“Oh, I’m very sorry,” said the glass. It dimmed itself.

Draco nearly dropped it. He may have been a wizard, but usually objects didn't talk to him. And if they did, they certainly didn’t have common etiquette.

“What on Earth—?” he said.

“There are many things on Earth. I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

“Er.” Draco looked at Potter. The chipper voice hadn’t disturbed him yet. “What are you?”

“Good Heavens! Here I’ve forgotten to introduce myself to a new user. I’m Merlin. Your iWiz navigator.”

 _The_ _Ancient and Modern Words, Numbers, and Symbols of the World!_ dissolved and was replaced with a dozen or so pictographic symbols, distributed evenly on the screen.

“I can help you with any of your applications,” Merlin said, and as he went on the symbols enlarged at his description. “With iPotions, I can help you decide whether the plant life you find is appropriate for your brew. Wouldn’t want to mix up hemlock and heartlock! And with Spell-o-saurus, we can compare different spells, so you pinpoint just the right one for any occasion. It’ll really _Lumos_ your options! Ha ha ha!”

“I’ve never seen this in a shop,” Draco said indignantly. He didn’t think he’d been on the front lines of battle that long. Three months was hardly enough time for the snail-paced wizarding world to invent something of this calibre and stick it on the shelves of Flourish and Blotts. Draco would know. He did so love _things_.

“Oh? I’ve been on the market for five months. You can buy me at any of these nearby Apple outlets.” A world map popped up. Two pins dropped. “Oh dear, those aren’t very near at all. Would you prefer me to route you to Hong Kong or New Delhi?”

“Nowhere.” He understood now. This was a product marketed towards Muggleborns, possibly operating on some unholy combination of magic and technology. He remembered Granger and Thomas using their i-whatsits and their mobile phones at university and complaining about magical interference. Some wizard in the tech industry must have made a bundle off this. “Can you help me translate something from this book?” he asked, opening _The Healer’s Helpmate_ to the Chinese Flesh-Fire Curse.

“Why, yes, of course! I get to use my favourite app!” The language title came forth again, rising like a blinding sun. “Hermione likes it, too. She has it on auto-open.”

“Great. So. Translate this.” He paused, and added, “To English.”

“Well, here’s the thing. I’m very literal.”

The device didn’t elaborate. Draco was about to say something snide, but stopped when he realized he was conversing with a piece of glass. That was when two flags popped up in the middle of the screen—an American flag and a Union Jack.

“Choose one, please,” Merlin said. 

Draco poked the Union Jack. Nothing happened.

Merlin giggled. “With your wand.”

When he did, yellow light emerged around the flag.

“Now what?”

“Well, I don’t have eyes. Drag it to the document you wish to translate.”

That sounded stupid. How could the device follow his actions off the screen? He didn’t voice this. He simply pulled his wand towards the book, and to his amazement the light stretched off, too, like a translucent, neon-yellow string of taffy. When his wand touched the Mandarin description, the string of light snapped like a rubberband, catapulted off the book, and splashed onto the cave wall in great sunset-orange flames. 

From somewhere in the caves, a gong sounded. The noise echoed off the walls, reverberating in Draco's ears. He yelped, covering them with his hands, and looked over his shoulder into the caverns. For a second, he thought one of their guns had gone off.

“So sorry!” Merlin exclaimed. “Those are my theatrics! Ahem. The Story of the Ox Farmer and the Rice Farmer, or—Why You Shouldn’t Go Piddling Around on Someone Else’s Property.”

“What?” Draco looked at his staunch, cut-and-dry medical text. “Pardon me, Merlin, this isn’t—”

“Hush now! This is my best work.”

Throughout all of this, Potter lay motionless on his stomach, which troubled Draco deeply, but there was nothing to be done. He crossed his legs, pushed his cigarette out on the stone floor, and watched a black silhouette walk into the frame of orange light. Draco scoffed.

“Is that a shadow puppet?”

“Will you be quiet?” Merlin said tightly. “The show is about to begin. And since you’ve ruined the introduction, I’ll just tell you—this fellow is the ox farmer.”

The ox farmer bounced into the middle of the frame. Behind him, there were several large animals lumbering along.

“ _Oh dear_ ,” the puppet said in a voice that reminded Draco of his mother reading him a bedtime story. “It’s so hard being an ox farmer. My cattle are not growing very large, and I can’t slaughter them for my family to eat. Then we’ll have nothing to sell in town. Whatever will I do?”

The farmer came upon a swaying crop. 

“What’s this! A rice paddy! Filled with fully-grown stalks, ready for harvest. How convenient. I’ll just take some for my family, and that will help get us through the season.”

The puppet dove into the rice paddy, pulling out stalks by the handful, which was amusing even though Draco wasn’t sure that was how rice was harvested, and then from above a shadow dragon swooped into the scene.

“How dare you pillage my crop?” he boomed. Merlin did love his theatrics. “You don’t belong here. I’ll make you pay for your thievery!”

The dragon spewed out shadowy flames, which broke apart and danced towards the ox farmer in tiny runes. The same runes that were plaguing Potter’s skin. The farmer shrieked as they adhered to him. The oxen reared up, mooing. The dragon flapped its wings, cackling as it flew out of sight, leaving the farmer twitching on the ground, his legs sticking up like those of a dying cockroach.

The gong sounded again. Draco covered his ears. Merlin paid him no mind, closing out the orange light from either end, as if the darkness were stage curtains. When the curtains reopened, the farmer-puppet was trailing in front of his oxen with runes dancing above his head.

“The agony! How I wish I had not shamed my ancestors and stolen from the rice farmer. Now I will surely succumb to this witchcraft.”

There was a rattling sound, like seeds being shaken within a gourd.

“Quick survey,” Merlin said in his normal, chipper voice. “Do you think that sounds mystical? Touch _yes_ or _no_.”

“What the—?” Draco touched _yes_ , and Merlin informed him he’d send that information along to Apple apps development, and then got back to the bloody story. 

A shadow woman flounced into the scene. She had wild curly hair, a long nose, and a staff in her hand. 

“Did I hear _witchcraft_?” she cried. “What seems to be the problem, lowly Muggle?”

“A sorceress! My father warned me about your kind! But I am in such dire need of care...and my family will surely starve without me....”

“I will assist you with your ailment for the price of one oxen. For, by the runes glowing on your skin, it seems you’ve stumbled into a wizard’s wards...Flesh-Fire wards! Both common and dangerous.”

“Flesh fire? Yes, that sounds right by the way I feel. Fine! One oxen, just help me. Help me!”

The gourd rattled and drums boomed and the witch began to sway, her hair whipping like tassels, her voice becoming slow and deep.

“The answer to your plight may be as dim as night, but when the pain grows dire, look to the fire. Before it runs its deadly course, find the cure nearest the source.”

Draco worried his brow, not quite understanding. Luckily, neither did the farmer.

“Speak plainly, witch! I don’t understand your sorcery.”

The drumming stopped. The witch slumped. “Lowly Muggle, the companion cure is part of the trickery of this curse, for while it may be easy for thieves to douse themselves with ice water and get back to their vileness, few thieves will think to douse themselves with the smoke the dragon left behind.”

Draco gasped. There was no dragon in reality. He understood it was a metaphor, but a metaphor that had been neglected in translation. Potter was right! He picked up _The Healer’s Helpmate_ , devastated. The Flesh-Fire Curse wasn’t an elemental curse with a _contrasting_ cure. It was an elemental curse with a _companion_ cure! He’d have to write an angry letter to the author’s translator. But first!

He lunged for his knapsack, pulling out his packet of cigarettes. He lit one with his wand, inhaled a great lungful, saying to Merlin, voice heavy and guttural, “You’d better not be bullshitting me right now.”

“ _Bullshitting_ isn’t a standard word in my dictionary, but you can add it by selecting the settings menu and—”

Draco wasn't listening. He was exhaling the smoke onto Potter’s foot.

The runes faded away. Just like that.

“Yes!” He stuck the cigarette in his mouth, and shook Potter. “Hey, get up! We’ve got to get your clothes off.”

No response. 

“No, no, no, not yet.” 

He pressed his fingers into Potter’s neck. Pulse was present, if shallow. 

He made a slashing motion with his wand, and Potter’s trousers and shorts ripped to shreds, falling around him. He blew smoke up the back of Potter’s legs. With each mouthful, more runes disappeared. Brilliant! In the background, the puppet-farmer was shouting with joy and then cursing the trickster witch for making off with more than one oxen, at which point Merlin started waxing about morals and Muggles knowing their place and Draco wondered whether this was the app, or Merlin, or _The Healer’s Helpmate_ talking. It wasn’t until he was finishing Potter’s shoulders that he stirred.

“Mmph, wha’s goin’ on?”

“It’s working! Turn over.”

“What’s working?”

“The cure is smoke! The translation was wrong. I know, I know, shut up.” 

He rolled Potter onto his back and took a hard drag and started blowing from the bottom again. Potter moaned. As the runes vanished, they made a barely audible hissing sound, perhaps leaving his skin with a last sizzle of heat. But leave, they did! As Draco approached Potter’s midsection, he straddled his legs, bracing his arms on either side of Potter’s hips. He knew what area his mouth was nearing. This was no time for his mind to go to the gutter, but with Potter’s brogue echoing off the cave walls, with his hands gripping the blanket white-knuckled and shaking, it was impossible not to make the association with intimacy.

Draco looked out from under his fringe and found Potter gaping at him from the other side of a massive erection. He held eye contact as he pulled on the cigarette. The tip glowed orange. He took it out, smoke curling around his face, and slowly blew on Potter’s cock.

Potter’s eyes rolled back. He bent his neck, head pressing into the blanket, lifting his hips and Draco, by default. The bucking motion made it hard not to get aroused, yet Draco pressed on, making his way up Potter’s stomach, taking special care to cover his chest with smoke, worried the runes could have imbedded into the heart wall. When he’d pushed up Potter’s t-shirt, the last of the runes having vanished from his chest, Draco was very much aware that his erection was pulsing against Potter’s, their chests also touching, hearts racing, mouths closer than they had ever been.

“Is that all of them?” Draco murmured.

“I think so. Nothing hurts.”

“I’ll have to do a second check.”

“Yeah. Yeah, in a bit.”

Potter kissed him. 

His feet were flat on the ground, legs bending to brace against Draco’s arse. His hands came up to grab Draco’s hips, and—Draco was sure it wasn’t involuntary this time—he started bucking again. Draco held onto his shoulders. He couldn’t help moaning into Potter’s mouth, a sound of confirmation— _What you’re doing is so very right_ —as the motion made their cocks slide together. He unbuttoned his trousers, desperate to feel Potter’s skin against his own. 

In an unexpected burst of energy, Potter flipped them over. Draco’s head was on the bare stone as Potter shucked off his trousers and pants. He made a tragic sort of face in the firelight, something between awe and disbelief, as he shook his head at Draco’s body. Then he swooped down, kissed Draco deeply, and whispered, “God, you’re even sexier than I thought you’d be.”

He flung off his shirt. Draco followed suit, rolling onto his knees to curl one hand into Potter’s hair and the other around his cock.

“You’re about as sexy as I imagined,” Draco said, kissing his throat.

Potter made one of those low groans. He leaned back his head, almost as if Draco’s hand were forcing it back, and smiled as Draco pumped his cock.

“Guess if you would have checked the translation the other day, you could have found out sooner.”

Guess Potter hadn’t changed much since uni. “Shut up, arsehole. Granger’s little gadget told me, anyway.”

“Oh, the iWiz? She’s crazy about that thing.”

“Yeah, well. I might leave it in this cave. It’s going to make healers obsolete.”

“Nah, you’re far brighter than a ruddy chunk of glass.”

“I can hear what you’re saying,” Merlin sang, “and it’s not all very nice.”

Draco was kissing Potter’s chest, and then his stomach, enjoying the mild scent of soap that clung, enjoying the fingers threading into his hair. When he was on his hands and knees, those fingers stroked down his back and pushed between his buttocks, massaging as far as they could reach. Draco arched his back. He buried his face into Potter’s groin, finding the soapy scent clung there as well, and since he was pressed too close to Potter’s body to take his cock into his mouth, he licked the base of the length that ran alongside his cheek. 

“Shit, Draco,” Potter said above him. 

His fingers disappeared. They returned to Draco’s arse wet. He rubbed them into the soft flesh, and then gently worked one into Draco’s hole.

“Merlin,” Draco whispered, dropping his head. He listened, and then was grateful the iWiz had the good sense not to answer.

Potter fingered him firmly. It overwhelmed Draco, making him forget the mission at hand, forget the stone pressing into his knees, or the fact that his cock had grown so hard it had risen flush with his stomach. Potter’s spare hand went to his own cock, and Draco was thrilled at his boldness, as he didn’t wait for Draco to open his mouth. He rubbed the tip over Draco’s lips. Draco complied, letting Potter fuck into his mouth and pull from the other end with his finger hooked in Draco’s arse like an anchor, and when Draco was throat-deep with cock he arched his back again and gazed into Potter’s eyes, finding that mouth spread out in a dazzling grin. Since Draco couldn’t return the smile, he began to hum.

Potter closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and jerked Draco up.

“Thank you,” he said in the middle of their kiss. His finger was still buried, fucking the hole as deep as it would go. Draco could hardly sit still, rocking back onto it, wrapping his arms around Potter’s neck, and putting their foreheads together. 

“I want to sit on your cock so badly.”

Potter kissed his cheek, pulled his hair to one side to get to his ear, and whispered, “You don’t know how amazing that sounds. But I’ve been on my back for too long. Will you bend over for me?”

If he only knew the power his voice had over Draco. And with words like those? Good God. 

There was only one thing better than having Potter’s voice in his ear, and that was having Potter’s cock in his arse. Draco longed for a mirror. He was certain the image of it was as sexy as the feeling: Draco, pale and lean, his torso stretched out, his back curved as he accepted Potter’s short, firm thrusts. Potter, dark and heavy with muscle, his backside and thighs flexing, his chest hair curling with sweat, his mouth open as watched his cock slip wetly between Draco’s buttocks. He leaned over Draco’s back, and said, “God, you don’t know how long I’ve been wanting this.”

Of course, Draco knew. But now was not the time to let on. He put Potter’s hand on his cock, guiding him to work the foreskin. Potter’s lovemaking was so confident, so sure, that Draco came right away, his cries filling the whole cavern.

Potter did not follow quickly. Whether it was residual from the curse, or he took his time in bed, or he was simply enjoying the novelty of their first time together, Draco was unsure. But he was happy to listen to Potter’s breath hitch, to feel Potter’s hands alternate between grabbing and stroking his hips, to feel his balls swinging wetly, until without warning he went still. Warmth ran down Draco’s legs. Potter pulled him as far as he would go onto his cock, an attempt perhaps to keep them connected for longer, but his cock went soft and slipped out of Draco’s arse.

They flopped onto the blanket.

Potter’s arm was covering his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me. I rather enjoyed it, too.”

He turned his head, looking winded but happy. “No, about the smoke thing. A stroke of brilliance.”

“Like I said, it was Merlin.” 

He waited for it. 

Sure enough, Merlin giggled. “Oh, you’re you're both too kind.”

Draco rolled his eyes. “Merlin, go to sleep.”

“Yes, sir! Powering down.”

Potter pulled him close, kissed him, and yawned. “Let’s go to sleep, too. Just 20 minutes or so. Then I’ll be good as new.”

“I’ll set an alarm.” He agreed there would be no use searching for Granger with their eyes closed. 

It was a strange but welcome development, putting his head on Harry Potter’s chest for the first time. He hoped, knowing they were in China, knowing the French Guard was probably long gone with the regiment by now, that it would not be the last time.

\\\\\\*///

Draco forgot the alarm. They awoke to the clearing of a throat.

“Merlin, shut up,” Draco grumbled.

“Flattering, but I’m no Merlin.”

Potter shot up, hurtling Draco off his chest. He would have been indignant, but it didn’t seem appropriate. 

Granger was standing there, arms crossed, smirking at them.

“Hermione!” cried Potter. He was already bounding up to hug her.

“It’s nice to see you, too,” she said awkwardly. “Every inch of you.”

“Oh—er—” He covered himself with a hand, and set about looking for his clothes, all the while eyeing Hermione in somewhat embarrassed disbelief. “How’d you find us?”

“It was an accident. I followed the sounds of...well, I really shouldn’t say it out loud.” She was smiling at Potter as he held up his pair of shredded trousers.

Draco, on the other hand, was dressing in what he hoped was a leisurely manner. He hadn’t planned on being starkers in front of Granger either, but didn’t want to show he cared. He told Potter, “Yeah, I don’t know a spell for that. You’re on your own.” He reached out for Granger, hugging her. “Glad you’re all right.”

“Can’t believe _you_ came looking for me,” she teased. “I imagine your first words were, ‘Serves her right for being a know-it-all. She can rot in that cave with her historical documents.’”

Draco hadn’t said anything of the sort. He nodded. “Pretty much.”

She took pity on Potter, and used the iWiz to look up a mending spell. (“Hermione, you’ll never guess what they started doing after they shredded up those trousers! And they were using so many words not in my dictionary, so my recommendation is that you update—” At that point, Draco cast a Silencing Charm on Merlin.) When Potter turned away to change, Granger elbowed Draco.

“When did this happen?” she asked quietly.

“Just a couple hours ago. Thanks for letting me know he’s fancied me for the past decade.”

“Well, he never thought you’d reciprocate.”

“Why?” Draco asked breathlessly.

She gave him the most patronizing look. “Because you’re so mean to him.”

Draco drew himself up, sticking out his chest. “I’m not mean. I’m straightforward.”

Granger covered her mouth in silent laughter. Potter came back, his wandlight as bright as it would go. 

“We’ve got to find the entrance. We’ve only got a couple hours before meeting up with Ron.”

They began walking, Granger saying, “I believe we’re close to the entrance. I recognize these markings.”

“How? They’re all over the damn place,” Draco said.

“Because I made them, of course. It’s not as though I was lost. It just took awhile for me to find what I needed.”

Potter stopped. “Hermione! You knew your way out, and you stayed here for two days longer than you told me you would? Do you know how worried we’ve all been? How nutters Ron has been going?”

She steeled her expression. “It was worth it.”

“What do you mean it was worth it?” Potter said, his voice going deep and firm, and, _dear God,_ this was no time to get an erection. “Hermione. You endangered us all with this rubbish. I was prepared to keep the entire regiment in Mongolia, in the face of certain death, waiting around for your arse to find some—some—what in the Hell did you find anyway?”

Her cheeks were pink, but her eyes were hard. She reached into her backpack, pulling out some broken bits wrapped in plastic.

“They’re the remaining shards of the Origins of Magic bones.”

“So?”

“ _So_ ,” she said very patiently. “I found artefacts that the Chinese government doesn’t want any other eyes to see. And my spell analyses proved that while the bones are as old as they say, the ink that wrote the Origins of Magic is not. This type of ink wasn’t invented for a thousand years after Ping died. That means someone forged the Origins of Magic on his bones.”

Potter looked like he was trying not to blow up. “That has nothing to do with us risking our lives like this. With you risking _your_ life, Hermione! I’m so disappointed right now, I can’t even—”

“Harry,” Granger snapped. “If you can’t understand what this means, then I suggest you save your ranting for later.”

She spun on her heel and started away.

“Looks like she could teach me a lot about handling you,” Draco said casually.

Potter shot him a look. He took a deep breath, grabbed Draco by the hand, and they ran after her.

They found her waiting at the cave entrance, her silhouette clear in the midday light, a slender body and large knot of curls on top of a head. She was still as a statue when Draco and Potter came up on either side of her. It was clear that this was the cave exit, just not the right one, for Weasley and Edgecombe were waiting for them at the top of a ridge beneath a canopy of pines, but they were most certainly not alone.

Weasley’s gun and spell-proof vest were on the ground. He was in the middle of insisting, “We are just, er, tourists—lost—please, we’ll just be on our—”

Their arrival caught the attention of two men in robes. They turned around, and from their faces and the emblems on their robes, Draco gathered they were Chinese Aurors. One kept Weasley and Edgecombe at wand point, while the other began charging down the hill with his wand outstretched. He was shouting something in Mandarin.

“Merlin, translate,” Granger whispered.

“ _Drop your weapons or I’ll curse you!”_

“But we aren’t—” she started to say, and then looked at Potter. “ _Harry_!”

Potter had the AR-15 poised at this shoulder. The Auror was feet from them now, eyes alight with rage at the sight of the gun, continuing to shout words Draco couldn’t distinguish from one another.

“Let go of our friends, and we’ll be on our way,” Potter said.

The Auror kept charging. “ _What is that? What’s making that noise?_ ” Merlin translated, adding, “OH! He means me, Hermione.”

“Tell him you’re a translator,” she said.

Merlin did. The Auror huffed. “ _Drop your weapons, or the woman will be skinned and the man will get a Bone Powdering curse to the spine_.”

Edgecombe made a despairing noise from afar. Granger and Weasley locked eyes. She was whispering, “Harry, please, just drop it.”

Potter’s gun remained steady. “Let our friends go or I’ll spray the trees with your brain.”

The Auror’s eyes widened. He jabbed his wand at Potter’s head. Draco’s heart fluttered, and he found himself forgetting his gun and scrambling for his wand. The Auror whipped towards him and shouted, sending blinding light out his wand. Draco shut his eyes. He heard the trill of gunfire. When he opened his eyes, the Auror was on the ground—not bleeding, but twitching with his eyes rolled back, surrounded by an opaque shield. Granger’s wand was out and Potter looked furious. 

“If you shoot one Auror, the second will surely execute them!” she cried. “Besides, you don’t honestly want to shoot a neutral party in the middle of a war, do you?”

As she spoke, the other Auror was making his way downhill with Weasley and Edgecombe in front of him with their hands up. The man was incensed.

“ _Drop your weapons or they die!_ ” Merlin translated.

Weasley looked grim. “Do _not_ surrender to him, Harry. They’ll kill us all in the end. Go for the shot. Do it!”

“ _You have ten seconds!_ ”

“If you harm them, you’ll die instantly,” Potter yelled, putting his eye to the scope.

“HARRY, NO!” Granger was saying. She couldn't seem to decide where to point her wand. “Please, he’ll kill Ron, please—”

The Auror was clearly counting to ten in Mandarin. By Draco’s estimation, he was down to _6...5..._

“Harry, please, drop it! Drop it!”

But Potter was striding towards the Auror now, jaw set, eyebrows low.

_3...2..._

“Děng yī xià!”

It wasn’t Merlin. It wasn’t the Auror. It was Granger. She had sprinted in the field, putting herself between Potter’s gun and the Auror’s party. The Auror had stopped counting, shocked.

“Hermione,” Weasley growled, looking like he was about to cry. “Get out the way.”

Her hands trembled as she dug in her bag. “Děng yī xià!” she repeated. She pulled out the bag of bone shards and thrust them at the man, who simply cocked his head, shaking it like he didn’t understand. She began to speak to him in fluent Mandarin. Potter and Weasley looked shocked. The Auror looked similar, and the more Granger spoke, the more slack-mouthed he became, looking at his fallen comrade, and then past them into the depths of the cave. Granger went silent. Everyone, including the Auror, was silent for several seconds, until at last he slowly lowered his wand. He narrowed his eyes at Granger, and then snatched the bag from her hands. He pointed at her and spat a final, brief word. Granger nodded. 

She grabbed Weasley and Edgecombe. “Let’s go quickly.”

Draco couldn’t help asking, “Granger, what just—?”

“I’ll tell you later. Let’s Apparate to the border.”

Draco looked over his shoulder as they all locked hands. The Auror with the bones was squatting next to his friend, apparently relieved from the spell, and they were peering into the bag like they’d just stumbled upon a pirate’s treasure.

\\\\\\*///

When they arrived at the border, only feet away from the ridge where they’d parted ways with Weasley and Edgecombe the previous day, Granger burst into tears. Weasley enveloped her in a crushing hug.

“It’s okay, ‘Mione. You’re safe. We’re all safe.”

“It’s n-not that. I’m happy we’re okay, but now I’ve risked our lives for n-nothing.”

He put his chin on her head, rubbing her back. “Not to be cruel, darling, but I was never convinced you weren’t risking our lives for nothing. Come on, let’s get you back—”

“ _No_ ,” she said, pushing off his chest. “Don’t you get it? The bones! I bribed him with the bones! I promised Kingsley I could get them, and now it’s all ruined.” She was crying again, her words barely discernable. “They were s-supposed to get us l-leverage over the Chinese, turn the t-tide of the war! Don’t any of you understand?” 

The others traded confused looks, but Draco thought he understood. Then he remembered something in his pocket.

“Er, Granger,” he said.

“I’m sorry!” she wailed, putting her face into Weasley’s chest again. “This was all useless, and you were almost killed. Ron...Marietta...I’m so....”

“It’s okay,” Edgecombe was saying. She put her hands awkwardly onto Granger’s shoulders. “What matters is you’re safe.”

Granger turned and hugged her, murmuring thanks. Edgecombe clung to her, looking quite uncomfortable. Draco cleared his throat loudly. 

“Not to interrupt—” He gestured between Granger and Edgecombe. “—whatever this is. But take this before you go off the deep end.” 

He grabbed Granger’s hand, and shoved it into her palm. Her eyes brightened behind her tears. “An Origin bone shard? You found this?”

“Yeah, seems I’m good for something besides keeping colonels warm in caves.”

Potter made a funny noise. No one took notice, as Granger was launching herself into Draco’s arms. “Draco, you sneaky Slytherin! I love you!”

“Hush now, your husband’s right behind you.” He grinned at a befuddled-looking Weasley.

“Prat,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. She turned to the others. “Let’s go!”

“I still don’t know what’s going on,” Weasley muttered to Potter as they set off across the grassy plain.

“I wouldn’t worry about it. She seems to know. That’s all that usually matters.”

“Did I hear something about Malfoy keeping you warm?”

“Er—” Potter flushed.

“They looked very cosy,” Granger said, throwing a suggestive look over her shoulder. 

“What? No time for a sponge bath?” Weasley began to cackle. Edgecombe kept her eyes ahead, holding back a smile. When Potter did nothing but stammer, Weasley clapped a hand on his back. “Way to go, mate. About time.”

Draco rolled his eyes behind them. He felt like some long-sought prize, finally won. An object. A trophy. Or one of Potter’s war medals. It wasn’t until Potter looked over his shoulder, smiled softly, and winked, that Draco realized he didn’t mind one bit.

\\\\\\*///

A man in desert-grass camo walked up to the bonfire. Floating behind him were a couple trays of kebabs, roast vegetables, and bread. Also, four bottles of Russian ale.

“From our colonel,” he grunted. Draco had to lean forward to decipher the words through his Slovak accent. “Eat vat you like, as there is plenty vere that came from.”

Draco picked at his food, but welcomed the ale. He needed a pick-me-up after their journey.

It turned out the French girl Potter had recognized in the infirmary was Gabrielle Delacour, an in-law of Weasley’s, and she thought something was amiss when the two colonels and medics disappeared. When all portkeys were exhausted, she led a search party that stayed behind patrolling the Mongolian countryside and found the five of them slogging back toward the base—just in time, too. Apparently, the Death Eaters had swarmed the riverbanks just hours before, and their group would have been in for a rude homecoming. They were evacuated by broom, through safe sky passage, to an outpost of the Kazakhstani Magical Military. It was a much smaller military than Britain’s, but their only safe haven in the midst of the surrounding Death Eater states of the east.

Edgecombe was long asleep, having sworn off adventures for the rest of her life. The others downed their beers and asked a cadet for four more, and for the first time in the past several far-too-dangerous hours, Draco felt warm and safe. It helped that Potter’s leg was pressed against his.

Weasley pulled Granger close. He hadn’t stopped beaming since he, Potter, and Granger returned from a floo-call with Kingsley Shacklebolt himself. “You’re going to go down as a war hero, ‘Mione. My wife—a war hero!”

“You really think it’ll work?” Potter asked. “Seems too good to be true. After a decade of neutrality, China siding with us over a tiny shard of bone?”

“Minister Chen is a prideful man,” Granger said, leaning into Weasley’s arms, “and his greatest bragging right has always been that China invented magic. My ink analysis proves that’s not true—the _real_ first documentations of magic are actually from ancient Babylonia a thousand years after the Origins of Magic are said to have been written—and he’ll do anything to cover that up.”

Draco sniggered. “Imagine, Granger! You’re about to lead the way in spreading the biggest lie in history. You bring shame upon our alma mater.”

“I know.” She went a bit pale. “But it’s worth it to end all this. I did the right thing, didn’t I?”

“Absolutely,” Potter said, smiling at her through the fire. “We dearly needed their allegiance. Any means to achieve our ends, right?” He shot a sly grin at Draco.

Draco lifted his bottle. “I’ll drink to that.”

They all clinked bottlenecks. Weasley promptly began to snog his wife after that. It was as if they hadn’t been married for a hundred years. Draco might have rolled his eyes, but he was tipsy and also Potter’s arm was sliding around his shoulders.

“Cheers to you, too,” he said, deep and slow.

Draco discreetly covered his lap with his beer bottle. “Hardly. I just came along for the ride.”

“You found that bone. And you saved my life.”

“Merlin did that.”

“Nah.” He nipped Draco on the ear. “The iWiz couldn’t have cared for me like you did. I needed your hands. And mouth.”

Draco’s erection wasn’t getting any smaller, so he asked, “Shall we sneak into my tent?”

“Mine. I told them not to bother putting up yours.” He hauled Draco up by the hand, waved to his friends, and sent dirt flying as he hurried them towards the barracks.

“Potter,” Draco hissed, avoiding eye contact with the surrounding soldiers. “We’re in bloody Kazakhstan. Homosexuality is not on here.”

“I’m Harry Potter around these parts, too. You don’t think that name counts for something?”

“You cocky arse.” Draco could not hide the smile in his voice. 

Potter pushed him into the tent, spelled the fabric to lock in place, and fell to his knees, where he crawled over Draco looking quite predatory.

“I may be a cocky arse,” he growled, “but I think you like that about me.”

And Potter, as much as Draco hated to admit it, was right about that.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! All comments are extremely welcome either here or on [Livejournal](http://hd-fan-fair.livejournal.com/68046.html).


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